


The Chocolate  Coins

by TheRedheadinQuestion



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Don't copy to another site, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-08
Updated: 2018-12-08
Packaged: 2019-09-14 12:37:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16913028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRedheadinQuestion/pseuds/TheRedheadinQuestion
Summary: Last year, our lovely green-violin-bow wrote the most beautifulChristmas storythat made me sad every time I even thought of chocolate coins. This year…well…Greg took action.  This is isn’t a sequel–there’s no way I could write as well as Greenie–but it’s an AU of her AU, and complete Christmas fluff.





	The Chocolate  Coins

**Author's Note:**

  * For [green_violin_bow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/green_violin_bow/gifts).



> Last year, our lovely green-violin-bow wrote the most beautiful Christmas story that made me sad every time I even thought of chocolate coins. This year…well…Greg took action. This is isn’t a sequel–there’s no way I could write as well as Greenie–but it’s an AU of her AU, and complete Christmas fluff.

\----------------

Mycroft sensed it even before he was fully awake. The warmth, the certainty, the absolute rightness of his husband’s presence was absent. He slid a hand to Gregory’s side of the bed. Slightly warm. He’d barely begun to calculate the length of his absence when he felt the slightest of breezes from the bedroom door opening. Gregory slipped beneath the covers.

‘I should have known you’d be awake.” Greg kissed his temple and gathered him into his arms.

“Everything’s okay?” Mycroft sighed in pleasure as Greg’s scent enveloped him.

“Right as rain.” Greg settled his face next to Mycroft’s. “Santa just needed a bit of help getting down the chimney.”

“Ridiculous.” Mycroft huffed as drifted back to sleep.

The next morning, Mycroft awoke with his husband’s arms still around him and the scent of coffee in the air. He’d laughed when Gregory brought home the coffeemaker with a timer, but now it was a godsend.

“Merry Christmas, gorgeous.” Greg peppered his shoulder with kisses. “Shall we see what St. Nicholas brought?”

“Honestly, Gregory…” Mycroft didn’t bother to finish the sentence. He might deny it, but secretly he found Gregory’s stubborn insistence of Father Christmas charming. Like most things he did.

“C’mon.” Greg sat up, stretched and disappeared into the lav. He reappeared a few moments later in a plush red robe and winked at Mycroft. “Coffee’s on, and I strongly suspect we’ve got some of those croissants you like.”

Greg disappeared as Mycroft made his way to the ensuite. He hadn’t made much of an effort to deduce what gifts Gregory might have for him. Not only did he wish to preserve his husband’s surprise, part of him—despite the fact they’d been together several years–was still surprised to be receiving gifts at all, much less from someone who loved him. He’d been more focused on his presents for Gregory…a trip to the Spanish Villa they’d visited on their honeymoon, a pair of bespoke leather gloves, and first editions of Greg’s favourite books.

Mycroft finished cleaning his teeth and glanced in the mirror. His cheeks were pink with excitement and his hair was fluffed far beyond acceptable levels. He briefly considered a shower and proper clothing, but Gregory preferred him this way—slightly mussed, and armour free, as it were. He put on the matching red robe that’d been a Valentine’s Day gift—the word husband embroidered on the left breast—and made his way downstairs to the den. 

He stood in the doorway and blinked. The room was awash in the scent of pine, Christmas lights and presents galore, as expected. Bing Crosby crooned in the background. But at the mantle hung five, ten…twenty Christmas stockings.

Twenty? Last night there’d only been two.

“Gregory?”

Greg shrugged. “As I said last night, Santa needed a bit of help.” He clapped his hands together and rubbed them. “So! Shall we start with stockings?”

Mutely, Mycroft nodded. Greg directed him to his usual chair. Steaming cups of coffee and croissants waited on a nearby table. Greg handed him a stocking and Mycroft thrust his hand inside.

Cold, circular…firm but not entirely hard.

He pulled out a handful. They were coins.

Chocolate coins.

In an instant, he was twelve again. The one thing he’d secretly, desperately desired–the one thing he’d never received–was a few chocolate coins at the bottom of his stocking. Sherlock got them, of course, but Mycroft never did. Too much sugar and fat for a body such as his, Mummy announced, much to his embarrassment. To make matters worse, for several years Sherlock offered to share his coins, which he always declined. Mummy was, after all, correct.

But now…

Mycroft plunged his hand back into the stocking and found it entirely full of chocolate coins. He checked the other stockings, and apart from Gregory’s, each one contained a bounty of chocolate coins.

“Gregory?”

Greg grinned. “So…I remember what you told me. About your mum.” His grin faded. “And I’m sorry, Myc…I know she’s your mum and all, but that’s about a thousand shades of fucked up. Who does that—”

He cut himself off, closed his eyes, and bit his lip briefly.

“Anyway.” He said with a cleared throat. “I’m here now, and I reckon she gave you stockings until you were about eighteen? That’s eighteen years of chocolate coins you’re due, plus one for this year.”

Mycroft’s jaw dropped as he gazed at the stockings still on the mantel.

“But..but…how?” His eyes filled with tears.

“Oh, love.” Greg was there in an instant. He perched on the edge of the chair put an arm around his husband. “Had to go to a bunch of shops and wound up putting in a special order. But it didn’t matter if I had to drive all over the bloody country. You were going to get what was due you.”

“G—G—Gregory…” Tears coursed down his cheeks.

“Oh no. Too much?” He shifted onto Mycroft’s lap and pulled him into a hug. “I’m sorry, Myc. I didn’t mean—”

“No…I apologize Gregory…this is entirely welcome. I just…”

“I know, love. I know…”

Greg gently rocked them back and forth as years upon years of disappointment, humiliation, and unshed tears spilled. That Gregory listened to his confession last spring, born of too much whisky and shared tales of childhood, was one thing. But to not only remember but act upon it? Well, it meant everything. Everything.

Slowly, the tears ebbed. Mycroft sniffed, and Greg handed him a fresh tissue. Mycroft mopped his eyes and held up a chocolate coin.

“May I interest you in a bit of chocolate? I’ve got it on good authority that we’ve now an ample supply.”

Greg barked out a laugh. “Sure love. Oh, and by the way?”

“Yes?”

Next time we go to your parents? Well, let’s just say I’ve already found a tart recipe that prominently features chocolate coins.”

Mycroft burst into ecstatic, teary laughter. “You may very well be the most ridiculous creature to ever grace my life, Gregory Holmes-Lestrade, and every day I’m thankful that you looked my way.”

Greg lifted Mycroft’s chin with a finger. Joy shone in his eyes.

“Merry Christmas, Myc.”

“Merry Christmas, my Gregory.”


End file.
